


Eclipse

by IcarusDive



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, REAL HARD MUTUAL PINING
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 02:27:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12423180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IcarusDive/pseuds/IcarusDive
Summary: The moon shines as the sun commands. And the sun's crown is most easily seen during a solar eclipse.





	Eclipse

**Author's Note:**

> i originally wrote this in portuguese and i thought it was going to be ok since im used to translating from english to portuguese. spoilers: it wasnt ok.
> 
> also i wrote this while i was half-drunk and half-high but i grew too attached to the oneshot to delete it
> 
> i hope you enjoy it!
> 
> beta'd by the amazing [gold_on_ice](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gold_on_ice)

When he thinks of the colour pink, he sees a star in the sky. He sees the neon signs of all the big cities, the casino’s glamour, the night’s beauty. He also sees that small aurora every morning, a gradient of indigo to purple to orange… And Viktor would be a shade of pastel pink between the purple and the orange. Yuuri looks, gazes at Viktor the same way he does at the fireworks at Hasetsu’s summer matsuris, as if his fiancé was one of the many colours filling the dark night sky before his mortal eyes.

Viktor is the entire rainbow, but he is mainly pink. He is the rose of a bush, its perfume, its petals, its meaning. He laughs every time Yuuri rests his nose on the back of his neck and breathes in his scent, and he laughs the same deep, groggy chuckling first thing in the morning. Viktor is the very magic behind his laughter; he is each puff of air released when he’s starting to run out of breath and already has tears in his eyes from being tickled.

He is every breeze that blows from the west, every beat of the gulls’ wings and every beat of his fiancé’s heart. He is the lion crossing the Kalahari Desert, walking over the scorching sand and roaring at the sun, challenging it. He is also each grain of that sand, escaping through the gaps between his fingers.

Viktor is the cry of the violins and the murmur of the cellos. He is velvety and sophisticated. He is the waltz that twirls couples around, that makes men chin up in position and women straighten their backs in elegance. He is the hand on the hip and the hand on the lower back. He is in each step, the solid rhythm and pace of the incessant 1-2-3, 1-2-3. He is the flickering lights on the chandelier of a palace, the crystals of a lady’s expensive necklace and the gold in a gentleman’s fancy wristwatch.

He is each arch of a ballerina’s legs and arms, each single touch of an en pointe against the wooden floorboards of a studio, each spin, each hand gesture.

He is each snowflake dancing in the cold winter wind, each bell tolling in a Christmas fair and each church and cathedral in the city, each tile covering the streets of Barcelona.

Yuuri is pretty sure he’s about to marry a nebula’s lost child, a mystic piece of space. _This man can’t be real,_ he always thinks to himself before smiling and waving at Viktor.

He is the sun that rises and falls every day, the sun that keeps the planets in orbit, that dictates day and night at its own desire. He could have chosen to burn and blind his vassals, but he is always the warm touch on exposed skin; the light and languid pecks on eyelids covering tired brown eyes.

And so, Yuuri always feels like he’s being slowly dragged into that gravitational field, into the influence of this magnificent centripetal force; voluntarily surrendering to the magnetic temptation of orbiting around the king star.

It’s still difficult to look at him and not see a god incarnated as a storyteller, a dancer and someone just too wonderful to be true. Intangible. But every time he finds Viktor splayed on their sofa, doing their dishes, leaning over their washing machine to look through the big window in their apartment’s impossibly small service area, Yuuri knows Viktor is Adam, the creation, and not God. Made in the image and likeness of a force beyond the Russian summer’s giant clouds.

Sometimes he wonders for how many past incarnations his soul had suffered to have the privilege to walk side by side with Viktor in this life. What had he done to deserve something as good and incalculable as the love he never thought he’d be able to feel? An intrinsic and genuine kind of love that angels sing about at the gates of Heaven?

And it’s so easy to see how small he actually is compared to the universal constants of destiny. It’s so easy to see how insignificant he actually is every time he remembers the light in the eyes of someone who promises him the sun and the stars, and who can very well bring them down to Yuuri if he so wishes. It’s so easy to dive into that blue that no chromatic denomination could ever do justice. It’s so easy to let strong arms foster him in the space where Yuuri’s back meets his chest. So easy to feel firm lips hum over the skin of his neck, two men becoming a silhouette against the light of some candles in their home in a Saint Petersburg night, the song of a heart, so terribly in love, to another heart, equally and terribly in love.

And Yuuri looks down at a specific finger in his right hand and he _knows_ that the sun will continue to rise and fall.

That tomorrow will be another day.

But for Viktor, each sunrise is torture. Each sunrise is a prelude to a nightmare that only ends when he rests his head on the pillow and sinks in a dreamless sleep. Every source of light creates shadows, and depending on the nature and angle of that light, the shadows become bigger than they should be. And wherever he goes, there is always a dark corner haunting him.

The haunting doesn’t stop and never will until he burns into the sky like the sun. But sometimes, they do. Every time he feels a hand running over the sweaty skin of his chest to gently wake him up from a nightmare, every time he scoots closer to the end of the mattress and two solid arms pull him back to the centre of the bed to keep him there. Every time he buries his face into the warmth of his fiancé’s neck and hears a voice whisper into his dishevelled hair “It’s all right, Vitya. It’s gone.”

The body of an adult man is made of 65% water approximately, but Viktor is sure Yuuri is entirely made of it; of blood, sweat and tears; of character, effort and suffering; of ardour, perseverance and emotion.

Yuuri is the sea’s blue and the gulls’ cawing. He is the slow murmur of the waves against the sand under Viktor’s feet. He looks up at Hasetsu’s summer twilight and wonders when he lost his humanity.

Or rather, when was it pried away from him with so much brutality?

And all that was left was a hole in his chest and a mask over his face. Sometimes he wondered if that wretched gold-foiled heart of his even beat beneath its carefully crafted radiance, tied to Midas’ destiny.

Human or not, Yuuri would still approach him to touch him like gentle tides and wash his feet and soul, bare to the salt of the ocean and of his tears. Slowly, experimentally, carefully making his chest echo, beat by beat. The firm thudding in his ears, in his throat, in each fingertip. Yuuri has firm, calloused hands. Maybe from falling too much and having to constantly use them to get up again and again. And those hot hands reach up to touch his golden mask.

It falls.

Yuuri pierces through Viktor's chest and holds his heavy golden heart with these warm, volcanic, fierce hands of his. And the gold melts and drips out of Viktor’s body like pus from an inflamed wound.

The only piece of gold he would ever allow himself to carry from now on was on his ring finger.

Yuuri swallows him as the tides rise, plunging him in the water of his blood, his sweat and his tears, and Viktor notices that not only is he human, but he was allowed be human with another human, surrounded by a stream of torrent, flooding love.

Yuuri is the moon that commands the tides Viktor floats on, carried away from the gold mines of firm land and closer to the line where the sky kisses the sea. Yuuri is the ice tail of the comet that crosses the firmament. He is the silver light that used to break into Viktor’s room through the window when he was younger, from a satellite that ruled over the night and lulled the stars to sleep when it was full moon.

He is the jingling little bells in the balconies of the other apartments, the summer rain, the whirlwind that carries the cherry blossoms away, the roar of the waves and the rocks that resist the mighty force of the ocean. He is each thorn in a rose, a tall bamboo tree that bends with the wind, never breaking, never falling.

He is the howl of the wolves in the coldest winters, the serenade to the silver strokes of the moonbeams. He is the call of the nightingales in the absence of light in the dead of the night.

He is each musical note, each deep echo of a drum. The impulse before a triple Axel and the feather-light elegance of an Ina Bauer.

Yuuri is the smell of burning logs and rain. He is the shy taste of cinnamon in a black tea and a mug of hot chocolate at the end of the most difficult days. He is the comfortable silence, the perfect harmony between two souls, connected by something people often call “destiny”, but that they had chosen to call “us”.

Things don’t always need to be named. The two halves of a relationship don’t need to be measured. The sun and the moon don’t fight over the space in the sky, and don’t need to. They are not even similar to each other.

It’s a different love. Without categories. Infinite and boundless. Written on the stars or the sand of a beach. Given out to the wind to be blown to every corner of the world or to be framed in a photo. It’s something to be celebrated every day, every sunrise and every moon cycle. It is when the waters of two distant riverbanks meet and flow together into the sea of a bigger future.

It’s the meeting of two celestial bodies, two opposites of the same spectrum. When the moon and the sun kiss, a silver prince steals Earth’s golden king for himself.

An eternal eclipse made of love.


End file.
